Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend

a packhorse on a leading rein, other than that they were travelling light as Tristan had suggested.

      Following Tristan’s gaze, it dawned on Francesca why Tristan had insisted that they wore practical, everyday clothing. No one would take them for the Count and Countess des Iles. The Count and Countess des Iles would surely ride through the land in bright silks and fine linen. They would have a grand entourage—guards and servants to fuss over their every whim. This way, with only Mari and Bastian and a solitary packhorse, they would pass through the towns and villages much faster. There would be no pomp and certainly no ceremony. They were riding incognito. With sackcloth covering Tristan’s shield, the three black cinquefoils were hidden from view.

      Her gut tightened. Did Tristan want them to travel unobtrusively because he was ashamed of her? His low-born wife. With a shake of her head, Francesca pushed the thought aside. Tristan was a proud man, not a cruel one.

      Tristan cleared his throat. ‘Your maid Mari is no longer young. Are you sure she can keep up?’

      ‘I’m sure. Mari is livelier than many women half her age, she never keeps still. And her father was a groom at Fontaine, she learned to ride at an early age.’

      ‘That’s good to hear. It’s safer if we keep together.’ Tristan set his face forward and urged Flint on. ‘Francesca, I don’t think you need worry about Count Myrrdin suffering. I have heard Lady Clare is very competent.’

      ‘Aye, so she is.’

      Penetrating blue eyes met hers. ‘I wasn’t sure how well you knew her.’

      ‘Well enough to know that she wouldn’t withhold the poppy juice if Papa was in pain.’

      Tristan held her gaze. ‘I doubt that poppy juice will be necessary. Knowing Count Myrrdin as we do, I think we may safely assume he is more likely to have fallen into one of his deep abstractions.’

      Eyes misting, Francesca stared straight ahead. ‘I pray so.’

      Leather creaked as Tristan reached across to briefly squeeze her hand. ‘Our main concern will be whether he is able to speak to you when we reach Fontaine.’

      Francesca’s throat closed. Tristan meant well, bless him, he was warning her that they might arrive too late. Blinking hard, she nodded and Tristan lifted his hand from hers.

      ‘I shall do my best to ensure we get there as swiftly as humanly possible.’ He paused. ‘Francesca?’

      ‘Aye?’

      ‘What happened when Lady Clare came to Fontaine to claim her inheritance?’

      Francesca felt herself go rigid. Shame. Hurt. Bitterness. However, Tristan’s blue eyes were kind. Thoughtful. ‘Tristan, I am sure you have already been given a full account.’